He took one nipple between his teeth and bit down lightly, making her gasp. He laved the ridged peak, his tongue circling and teasing, while his fingers delved in-between her thighs, taking up where he had left off earlier.
Imogen had nothing to do but lay back and take it all in; sensation overwhelming her, pushing her inevitably closer and closer to what she recognized was going to be shattering release. She was shaking with need, her head thrashing back and forth and her hands clenched in the bed sheets when he succeeded in driving her over the edge. Imogen shrieked, then clapped her hand over her mouth, mortified.
Gabriel chuckled wickedly, sure his nymph had never before so lost control of herself. She’d been genuinely surprised by her own noisy release. Dying to see if he could drive her to it again, he reached for the vinaigrette and plucked the sponge out of it. He slid it into place then positioned himself between her thighs and entered her with one hard thrust. Beneath him she gasped and he felt her clench as she enveloped him completely.
Balanced above her, he teased her slowly, nudging into her with sure steady strokes. When she began to sob, her breath catching in her throat and her chest heaving, he changed the rhythm of their joining, rocking his hips against hers, bumping the sensitive throne of her pleasure with his pubic bone with every stroke.
With another strangled scream Imogen exploded into climax again, her legs gripping him with all the strength of an avid horsewoman, her spine arching, and her fingers digging almost painfully into the muscles of his back.
He paused to kiss her deeply, basking in the deep throbbing contractions of her release, then rededicated himself to finding his own completion, driving himself into her with hard, fast thrusts.
Imogen was breathing in shaky gasps, crushed beneath him when Gabriel came back to himself. She was gazing vacantly at the ceiling, trying to get herself back under control. Something he clearly couldn’t allow.
‘Well, love,’ he said, shifting slightly off her and kissing her again. ‘Shall we see if you can be louder yet?’
In response Imogen smiled and kissed him back, sliding her free leg up to cling to his side, her foot riding his hip bone. ‘Louder?’
‘Louder,’ he reiterated. ‘Much, much louder.’
Chapter Nineteen
What can one make of the news that Lord St A—— is hopelessly enamoured with the former Mrs P——? Can it be true?
Tête-à-Tête, 18 October 1789
Imogen woke early, to find Gabriel studying her in the half light of dawn. When questioned as to exactly what he was doing, he smiled.
‘I’m trying to come up with the proper name for the exact shade of your nipples. They’re not Aurora, nor Morone, and they’re definitely not Terre d’Egypte.’ He peeled back the covers, exposing her breasts more completely to the light. ‘And they’re not Incarnate, or Bristol Red. I think the closest I can get is Lustre-gallant.’ He bent forward and took one of the objects of his musings between his teeth, flicking its responsive peak with his tongue.
Imogen hissed, her body convulsing. Let him muse colours like a draper all he wanted. Let him compare her to silk, or paint, or food. Let him quote Shakespeare, Donne, or Milton. She didn’t care, so long as he continued to touch her exactly as he was doing right now. He’d slid one devilish hand down her stomach to deftly stroke her already slick hidden folds.
When she began to squirm, he redoubled his assault, until she climaxed with a series of shrieking gasps. When she quieted, he stopped, rolling off her, and propping his head up on his hand, stared down at her, his eyes locked with hers. ‘Well, nymph?’
‘Very well,’ she replied with a hint of a purr, stretching until her elbows popped and her feet quivered, ‘but we can’t possibly be finished.’
She glanced at his engorged cock, and he laughed. ‘No, we’re certainly not finished,’ he agreed, reaching out and yanking her to him.
Riding back to Winsham Court was as unpleasant as she’d expected it to be. The day was overcast and there was a decided breeze, and to make matters worse, both their clothes were still extremely damp, and it was Sunday, so all the world turned out to stare. She felt like the Whore of Babylon, her sins plain for every single person they passed to see.
It had been nigh impossible to muster any enthusiasm to leave the bed, let alone the hunting box. Eventually, they had to though. The caretaker would undoubtedly return at some point during the day, and she didn’t relish being found there by him. It was going to be hard enough to brush through this without that.
Glancing over at Gabriel she caught him smiling. They must present quite a sight. They were both thoroughly dishevelled, and more than a little crumpled. Gabriel’s usual suave air was hampered by a hat with a slightly floppy brim, and the sad mud-spattered state of his boots, while she looked for all the world like a drowned rat. Her hair was in a fuzzy braid down her back, and curling up like mad, while her habit was simply a soggy mess; muddy and rumpled. Her hat was beyond any means of salvation.
They hadn’t discussed what had occurred, or where this might all be leading. In the heat of the moment it seemed unimportant, and in the cold light of dawn, impossible to broach.
Imogen was sure she didn’t want to know. It was easier to simply let things happen, and deal with the aftermath. Her brain turned over the various problems that presented themselves.
What
